“Don’t quit on my account,” urged his former chief.  “I’m up here on coal matters.  I can’t take time to explain now, but I’ll see you later.”

“Suit yourself, only don’t keep me loafing on full time.  I’m an expensive man.  I’ll be packed and waiting for you.”

O’Neil went on his way, somewhat amused, yet undeniably pleased at finding his boss packer here instead of far inland, for Slater’s presence might, after all, fit well enough into his plans.

“The Irish Prince” had gained something of a reputation for extravagance, but he acknowledged himself completely outshone by the luxury with which Curtis Gordon had surrounded himself at Hope.  The promoter had spoken of his modest living-quarters—­in reality they consisted of a handsome twenty-room house, furnished with the elegance of a Newport cottage.  The rugs were thick and richly colored; the furniture was of cathedral oak and mahogany.  In the library were deep leather chairs and bookcases, filled mainly with the works of French and German authors of decadent type.  The man’s taste in art was revealed by certain pictures, undeniably clever, but a little too daring.  He was undoubtedly a sybarite, yet he evidently possessed rare energy and executive force.  It was an unusual combination.

The dinner was notable mainly for its lavish disregard of expense.  There were strawberries from Seattle, fresh cream and butter from Gordon’s imported cows, cheese prepared expressly for him in France, and a champagne the date of which he took pains to make known.

On the whole he played the part of host agreeably enough and his constant flow of talk was really entertaining.  His anecdotes embraced three continents; his wit, though Teutonic, was genial and mirth-provoking.  When Mrs. Gerard took time from her worshipful regard of her daughter to enter the conversation, she spoke with easy charm and spontaneity.  As for Natalie, she was intoxicated with delight; she chattered, she laughed, she interrupted with the joyful exuberance of youth.

Under such circumstances the meal should have proved enjoyable, yet the guest of honor had never been more ill at ease.  Precisely what accounted for the feeling he could not quite determine.  Somewhere back in his mind was a suspicion that things were not as they should be, here in this house of books and pictures and incongruities.  He told himself that he should not be so narrow-minded as to resent Gloria Gerard’s presence here, particularly since she herself had told him that her friendship for Gordon dated back many years.  Nevertheless, the impression remained to disturb him.